


God Bless the Sad and the Selfish (Stay Helpless)

by believresneverdie (orphan_account)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Depression, Fluff and Angst, Hiatus fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Patrick whump, Recovery, Soul Punk Era (Fall Out Boy), Whump, patrick is just really sad rn but pete helps him get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 09:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16238840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/believresneverdie
Summary: The anger and humiliation hits him next, because how did he let himself go out on stage like that? All skin and bones, bleach blond hair and a pretty face. He was fresh meat for tough music critics, and he curses himself for not expecting this. He curses Pete Wentz. What a complete fool he was to think his best friend wouldn’t become the root of his demise.In which Pete comes back when Patrick needs it the most.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in a bout of depression. this fic means everything to me and i hope you guys like it. how about 100 kudos and i’ll make a companion fic from pete’s perspective or draw some fan art

_uhhhh voooo_  
_eeeee luhhhhhh veee_  
_ooooh_

Sometimes he doesn’t know when they’re telling the truth.

The weak sounds turn unbearable. It rarely takes much to get them to change their minds either, whether they’re hollering from the nosebleeds or the floor. Before this, it had been in a sleepy town nineteen miles north of Chicago, a town that prided itself on producing the greats, the cream of the crop, the wheat from the chaff. He fell asleep in Glenview, and the light didn’t come until afterwards.

 _The light is good, let there be light, come towards the light_ , they told him. He refused, ever the rebellious kid with fire in his eyes and symphonies in his soul.

He wishes he had gone towards the light.

The razor vibrates and cuts recklessly as he presses it to his scalp, domesticating the blade. He recalls being told once that after you tame something, it stays with you forever. Patrick regrets more than a few things he’s tamed. He hopes this isn’t the exception. Everything seems to move in a vicious cycle nowadays. You try, you fail, you get kicked when you’re down; you die. _The tour only ended yesterday,_ he reminds himself, _you’re not allowed to sink so deep so fast._ Yet here he is, silent in his misery’s company as he shears away his humanity. If he accidentally shaves his brain, he might go to Disco Hell, or some other place where washed-up has-beens go to die. Zombie Patrick Stump suddenly seems intriguing. He’ll eat the brains of the conservative fucks running the pop charts, fuck them.

The anger and humiliation hits him next, because _how did he let himself go out on stage like that?_ All skin and bones, bleach blond hair and a pretty face. He was fresh meat for tough music critics, and he curses himself for not expecting this. He curses Pete Wentz. What a complete fool he was to think his best friend wouldn’t become the root of his demise. Was Pete ever his best friend? He doesn’t know, but his Blackberry rings tantalizingly, only inches away from him as he finishes cutting his hair and dives for the cell phone to check the caller ID. It’s so hard needing attention when you’re trying your hardest to be a recluse, and the phone is flipping the _fuck_ out. Patrick’s thumb hovers undecidedly over the “decline” button parallel with “Joe Trohman is calling...” before he gives in to the earworm ringtone and accepts. “Hey, Joe! What’s up?” Patrick is trying his best to sound like a sweet, happy, healthy stud. He always had faith in his acting career.

“Hey, man,” Joe says happily, and Patrick can hear him smiling. “Record’s great, so glad you’re done with the tour. My band’s doin’ well, it’s so nice to feel important for onc—” Patrick hangs up before he can finish. He didn’t answer to hear other people be happy, he answered as a cry for help, god damn it.

He drags himself into the shower, and the scorching hail of water on his skin makes him feel clean until he steps out of the stream. He takes his headphones into the shower with him and gets lost in his mind.

He had a fiancee, for Christ’s sake. He was so close to Heaven, and now all of it’s been taken away from him, because Elisa is gone and Patrick is unworthy. A wise man once said that people need to make time for the things they love, and Patrick couldn’t make time for Elisa despite loving her with everything he had. Did he love his music more than her, or did he love her too much? Was he suffocating her?

Patrick feels like a plastic bag when he gets out of the shower: dirty, used, and suffocating. Steam condenses on the bathroom mirror, and he draws a circle just wide enough to make his face visible. He doesn’t think anyone from the Fall Out Boy days would recognize him if they saw him now: skin and bones, pale and sunken skin, shaven head and dead eyes. He would make a better fit on The Walking Dead than on the pop charts. He gazes down regretfully at the abandoned trash bag full of his discarded hair. Blondes have less fun.

He destroys a mirror thinking about Pete Wentz, and screams a string of curses as he faces the consequences. His knuckles bleed furiously as he scavenges through the house for first-aid supplies, and soaks his hand in cool water to compensate for the lack of them. Patrick’s angry yells fill the house, because he likes himself better when he isn’t himself. When he spoke before, his voice was soft, light pink and gentle. Like a kiss, or a butterfly, or perhaps a cherry blossom, so delicate and beautiful in the moment but so fleeting and rushed. He feels nothing but red now, deep maroon and a voice desperate with sorrow and anger. Patrick hates how vulnerable he made himself, he hates how low his guard was. He despises himself for letting himself get hurt like that when he was so young, so innocent. At the time, Patrick had no issue with scowling at people for commenting on his age, or his maturity. Now that it’s over, he agrees wholeheartedly. Fall Out Boy killed him. Patrick isn’t alive anymore. He’s been replaced by Patrick Stump, washed up pop star who tried too hard and just ended up back in the gutter like everyone else. He can’t believe he thought he was any different from all the other kids who had a chance. Patrick was nothing but the unlucky one who won the lottery, a metaphorical trip to the Hunger Games. And if he’s being honest with himself, that’s exactly what it was like. Kids tripped over each other for fame, they’d _kill_ for what Patrick had won. He hadn’t killed anyone. Had he?

He takes his time on the way to the bedroom, because _what ever happened to that kid he deprived of a chance to be like him?_ He so vividly remembers the night, that night in ‘07. After the concert, Patrick was tired. He never liked Milwaukee no matter how many times he tried to. He wanted to go home, he wanted to go to sleep.

The boy’s name was Luca, or Lucas, or something like that, and he begged for a record deal. No older than 14, he was their biggest fan, he said. He would die for a chance, he promised he wouldn’t waste their time. Patrick lost it that night. Lucian(?) left in tears, and Patrick still thinks about him. He still thinks about what could have been, about how some kid out there might be dead or might hate music forever, all because of Patrick. All because of mean, old, ugly, grumpy Patrick, with his hats and his male pattern balding and his vests and fashionably questionable sideburns. He can’t help but wish he was a better person.

Patrick groans as he forces himself to leave the house, covering himself with a Bears cap and a large windbreaker from his heavier days. The venture to the supermarket is one he does not enjoy, for where there is food there are people. Patrick does not trust people much anymore. He grabs a red apple, tossing it into the basket as he continues, carefully surveying his surroundings in peripheral vision. He thinks he saw a man gape at him in recognition over near the deli counter, but passes it off as paranoia. He hasn’t been out in a couple days, he’s just a bit on edge is all.

He carefully weighs his choices when it comes to food. The tour for The Album Which We Do Not Speak Of really drained his wallet empty, so Patrick’s finding himself just a little bit scarce on options nowadays. After a lot of concise thinking, he selects a big pack of instant ramen noodles and a container of canned Coke. A few minutes go by, and “This City” is on. “What a fucking joke,” Patrick mutters to himself, flinching in surprise when a chipper saleswoman asks him if he’s finding everything okay. He is, thank you, but Patrick just nods, grabbing his basket tightly and speedwalking to the registers.

He waits behind an old, heavy-set white man with long hair and faded tattoos. Patrick doesn’t want to ask, but he wonders what the man got each of them for. Do people still get tattoos with meanings? Patrick isn’t sure, but he would. Maybe he will, one of these days. It’s not like he has any career left anyway, so no mistakes left to make. He could be a muscled, tattooed biker who saves kids from abusive households or something. A badass softie, just like he always wanted to be.

Patrick’s fantasies are disrupted when Hell breaks loose.

“Hey,” says a familiar-enough, smart-ass, prick, pretentious asshole, douchebag, almost-stranger from behind Patrick. “Can we talk?”

“No,” Patrick remarks faux-cheerfully, “We can’t. Leave me alone, you’re ruining my life.”

Pete touches him on the shoulder, a gentle tap, and Patrick recoils away from him, hissing. This seems to upset Pete. Good. “Patrick, _please_! Please, I need to talk to you, Joe told m—”

“I don’t care what Joe told you, you fucking prick. I’m doing just fine, stop fucking stalking me,” Patrick spits, baring white teeth at the older man. “What, did you come here to see me? See the fucking freak show in the flesh? Well, I’m here, and you’re seeing it,” he laughs dryly, spreading his arms as he sets the basket down on the linoleum. “You want me to sing for you, you fucking douchebag?” He shoves Pete into a tabloid stand, earning him more than a few too-loud whispers and malignant glares. Who cares? He’s too riled up to be self-conscious right now, and he puts on a show, ready to lose all remaining dignity as he sings “Pete Wentz is a douchebag” to the tune of “We Are the Champions” in the checkout line at Kroger. Smooth.

“Patrick, fucking stop!” Pete is distressed, and Patrick’s having the time of his goddamn life because of it. “Patrick, please, just talk to me!”

Patrick doesn’t get the chance, as an angry woman seems to be extremely vehement about his removal from the store, and he is thrown once again onto cold, wet asphalt. He is an orphaned puppy, and the world just keeps on kicking him down. He worries his lip into an obnoxious frown and shoots a bird at the doors of the store. Pete runs out with Patrick’s groceries as the younger man lies obnoxiously on the asphalt, pretending he’s been hit by a car. Scratch that, Patrick isn’t being obnoxious. He would rather be hit by a car than talk to this man. He never gets what he wants.

“Patrick, listen,” Pete begins, and Patrick pretends not to. “I know I hurt you, okay?” Eye roll. “I’m sorry, I really am. But I want to get the band back together, alright?”

 _That_ is what blows the whole fucking thing to pieces. The cherry on top, the a la mode addition to having Pete Wentz search you down and pep talk you at the grocery store. Patrick did not experience the worst eight years of his life in that band just to do it all again. He didn’t let his childhood die in front of him just to come crawling back to what killed it.

“No,” Patrick says confidently, without hesitation. “You know why? You wanna know why?” He clenches his teeth, laughing hysterically through his anger. “You fucking— you _wrecked_ me!” Patrick is giggling like a madman and pushes Pete to the ground, kicking his body furiously with each point. “You tricked me into joining your stupid fucking _band_ —” Kick. “—You _lied_ to me, you told me I was talented, you told me I was _special_!” He holds back tears. There’s no way he’s about to cry for this man. He hates him, he _despises_ him. “You ruined my fucking life,” Patrick sobs, weeping into his hands in a great burst as he delivers a final, weak kick to Pete’s bruised torso. “I hate you!” He does. There’s no doubt about it. “What do you think about that?”

The bassist pauses before answering calmly. “I think you need _help_ ,” he whispers softly. “That’s why I called the police and told them you tried to kill yourself.”

Speak of the Devil, and he shall come: sirens blare throughout the parking lot, because they brought _everyone_ , and Patrick puts his hands up, because what is he supposed to do? Is he being arrested? Is it a fucking crime to want someone to shiv you in your sleep?

“Is one of you Patrick? We’re here for a wellness check.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m gonna take you to therapy,” Pete grins, a little too optimistic for the subject matter. “You need support, and I’m gonna support you. Then, you won’t be mad at me anymore and you’ll be happy and not want to damage your pretty little self anymore.” He raises a hand to ruffle Patrick’s hair and is dismayed when he remembers that Patrick has shaved it all away.

The one thing Pete knows anymore is the fixed, rusted metal of the armrest as he lies in waiting.

“Hello, sir?” He detests this nurse. “I hope you’re doing alright today, Patrick slept good last night and we found no bruises or cuts on him, no pills either.” _Scritch. Scratch. Skirtchhhhh._ The bassist draws sharp nails across the turquoise padding of the armchair, the days of black nail polish long deserted. It doesn’t feel normal anymore, and he is Peter Pan, dragged out of the clouds and into a nine-to-five world of dozing on the couch alone. But through it all, _Patrick is okay_ , and that by itself develops into the ever-present sign that perhaps everything will be alright. 

“You want to come and meet him?” Him. _Patrick._ The name doesn’t even feel native to his voice anymore, a foreign invader long neglected but threatening to get back with a retribution. Pete had found Patrick out of sheer luck and private investigation, he will not screw this up a second time. He realizes he will be alone again when Patrick comes home and prefers not to hang out with him anymore, and that troubles him the most. Pete used to call Patrick his best friend all those years ago. They don’t even speak anymore, haven’t spoken since Patrick stopped being grumpy-silly-charming-genius Patrick and became shaved-head-thunderdome-skinny-ass-isn’t-even-eating-enough-to-keep-a-bird-alive Patrick. 

Pete sees lights flicker in his skull as he’s tossed out of his delusions and back to existence, back to that ever-too-chipper-for-the-situation nurse. He’s had more than his equal share of hospital stays, and the expression in her eyes is that of a newcomer. An inexperienced girl, early twenties, doesn’t recognize the repercussions of what could have arisen. Not foolish, just naive. Drinks an abundance of caffeine, judging from her height, and he’s eager to wager she takes the double shift to afford meals. Pink hair, pale skin, brown doe eyes. Pete is almost sad for her, the way she puts herself out there like that. He has to resist frowning at the prospect of her having to witness real shit go down in her once-hopeful career as a ward attendant. A tragic life to lead. “Yeah,” he drawls, “take me to him, here’s cash for keeping him safe from the goblins last night.” He fulfills the assurance with a sudden poke in his coat, a sizable heap of crushed paper cash in his claws as he hands it to the girl. “Just take it, I’m wealthy and disturbed. I do what I want,” he exhales, shoving calloused hands back into deep pockets as he whistles and accompanies her down to whichever castle his princess is in. Pete hopes the food is adequate, or that Patrick found something to watch on television that wasn’t complete shit. Is Jackass still on?

A forest of bright pink hair is in his fucking face, because no matter how he toils, Pete can’t go past this girl. Move out of the way, Pete Wentz demands to be with his best buddy who he hasn’t seen in four years for anything other than returning lost hoodies. Pete Wentz wishes to be next to Patrick Stump, the operatic genius whose self-respect and grace had seemed to collapse along with his failed try at solo success. Pete missed the Patrick who flipped the bird at reporters and paparazzi for grins. He didn’t like Trick-O-Lantern, a flimsy shell of all he needed to be. Like, if Patrick wore something a little skimpier he could be a Fallout raider for Halloween, that’s the degree it had grown to. With each image of Patrick’s potential suffering, Pete shoves her to the side with more fervor. “Sir,” she exclaims, “Sir, please stay, we should consider therapy and treatment.” The bell goes off again in Pete’s head, because what if Patrick’s not okay? Maybe Patrick is damaged and pathetic, and all of this resentment and hostility was just a cry for support, because he requires treatment and medicine. Maybe everything’s not alright. Pete just nods, because he’ll do anything, he’s a vagrant on the streets praying for restoration in the form of Patrick, the only dwelling he’ll ever want. “Sir, we noticed nothing substantially wrong with him,” she remarked, and he wants to roll his eyes because _she already said that_ , and have you seen him, he’s a Victoria’s Secret model in the guise of Pete‘s best friend? “He is nihilistic, however, and the check we did, uh—He has considered killing himself, despite his low risk of harming himself presently.”

Pete thinks he could burst a hole through the wall right then and there. “He— God, I had no idea it had gotten so bad since the last time I met him... I know a therapist he can go to,” Pete mutters, “can I pay for him?” He hands her his card and cocks his head two times to the left. “Do you think I could see him?”

The pleasant nod and the smile that grows from her is Pete’s heaven, and he doesn’t fret about what happens to her once he’s through the door and close, so close. Close to that blonde angel with eyes like unmixed paint, blue and gold settling together in his irises. He belongs where Patrick is. Patrick is Dr. Jekyll, he is Mr. Hyde. Opposites attract, and Pete has never been so fortunate to find someone who had nothing in common with him.

Where Pete’s jagged-ended, Patrick is all round curves and tender beams.

Patrick is Saturday mornings, 70 degree weather, strawberry popsicles and pastel blue.

He was the gentle rainfall on a sunlit day and blankets smooth as the sky.

He is an intense ‘fuck you’, roared when Pete approaches the bed, accompanied by a low ‘I’m sorry’, twisting Pete’s heart in every conceivable angle, shooting a thorn straight through it. Patrick shouldn’t be sorry. He expressed all he needed to say back there in the parking lot last night. Pete wrecked his career, ruined it so soon. Of all the people in the earth who need to apologize, Patrick isn’t one. He had been through more than anybody, and at such a young age. Pete isn’t letting him enter the 27 Club. Not on his watch.

“Hi,” Patrick deadpans, but it lacks passion. It lacks sharpness, dominance, malice, plenty like the man himself. It seemed Patrick had the Midas Touch these days, all he touched turned to natural gold, like his mind and energy. “I—” Patrick pauses, sputtering with difficulty and shock. “I’m sorry I tried to slaughter you yesterday,” he chortles, cheeks painting rosy as the daybreak when he smirks. “It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to someone other than in a passive-aggressive talk about Soul Punk, or music, or—any of that bull,” he spewed, encouraging emotional stakes into Pete’s soul. Had Patrick given up on music so quickly? One marketing mistake and he’s done forever? Fall Out Boy must have fucked him up, or maybe he was feeble from the start. An hourglass, crushed to fragments and dispersed in the sand, pieces lost and heartless. Time lost in anguish and solitude. Pete kneeled on the floor, placing Patrick’s weak hand in his own.

“I don’t want you to be like this anymore, ‘Rick. You know what that means?” Pete asks, smiling.

Patrick shakes his head, concerned. “What does it mean?” he inquires, voice edging on excited and worried. Pete frowns, upset he’s been so ruined by the whole ordeal. Was it a valid choice to never do Fall Out Boy in the first place? He’d undo it all to make Patrick happy, he would.

“I’m gonna take you to therapy,” Pete grins, a little too optimistic for the subject matter. “You need support, and I’m gonna support you. Then, you won’t be mad at me anymore and you’ll be happy and not want to damage your pretty little self anymore.” He raises a hand to ruffle Patrick’s hair and is dismayed when he remembers that Patrick has shaved it all away. Another disadvantage of this whole thing. The gentle yawns Patrick would make? They’d be worth all of this, if only he had hair. “Seriously. Please don’t punish yourself, Patrick. Please,” he begs. It‘s almost like bargaining with the devil, fitting enough considering Pete had attended that infamous Halloween show. Lurking in the shadows, he took every little video conceivable of his shining star, his Patrick. So confident, so happy up there. It destroyed the bassist to think Patrick had been so miserable throughout that incident. Meant to represent him breaking free from Fall Out Boy and becoming so much more, it had turned into expectations that Patrick couldn’t live up to and the continually-haunting spirit of what might have been. “If it was feasible for me to go back in time and never do the band, I’d do it for you,” Pete babbles without thinking, mouth moving at its own will as he begged it to stop. Patrick needed no more reminders of the band. He didn’t need to relive it.

To Pete’s surprise, he earns an ear-to-ear smile and a weak but firm hug from the younger man. “You’re as loyal as I remembered,” Patrick beams, “you’re so much like Hemmy. Huge and scary-looking, but you’re just a big softie,” he coos.

“I’m no softie,” Pete hoots, “you should fuckin’ see me on slam poetry night, I rocked that shit last week like nobody’s business!” It’s true. He is the best.

“Promise to write me something?” Patrick is joking, but Pete sees the desperation in his eyes.

“Every love song I’ve ever written has been about you, Patrick,” Pete admits wholeheartedly. "Every letter, every verse, every bold, nameless declaration of adoration. You’re the sun to my moon, I revolve around you and ever since we met I’ve been addicted to you. I can’t get away from these emotions you give me, the rush in my veins and the constant pump in my heart. But, yes, Patrick, I’ll write you something. I’ll write you a a ballad, a song, a book, an album, an entire fucking discography. I’ll write you everything I’ve ever felt, I’ll write you anything your heart desires, because that’s how much I love you. I want you, Patrick, and I want you bad.” The words spill out of Pete’s mouth, desperate and rapid as the eruption of a long-dormant volcano. He’s never known how to put it into words until now, never known how to guarantee that his feelings would be requited. He felt it in his soul, knew that he was meant to be with Patrick and that everything would be amazing from there out.

The moment is interrupted by the loud, choking sobs that emit from Patrick’s mouth. “Pete, just fucking stop.”

As he loves Patrick, he expects himself to follow the younger man’s bidding, no matter if it’s in Pete’s best interests or not, so he stops, just like Patrick said. More specifically, his heart stops.

“You’ll be much better off with anything other than me, in fact, and I know better than anyone in the entire world that you’d rather kill yourself than even fucking kiss me on the lips, because that’s how much of a scam this all is. I’m not going to let you play me and make me think you’re in love with me, because I know that’s not true. If you think you’re ever going to fucking manipulate me again, you’re wrong, douchebag!” Patrick’s face is streaked pink from sobbing out warm tears, and while he manages to look more alive than he previously did, he isn’t happy. That alone is far from what Pete was attempting to accomplish, further proof of the older man’s failure as a friend.

 

“Whenever I see you—“ Patrick sputters, “—I feel like stabbing myself a trillion times, because I would much rather be dead than ever speak to you again. You ruined my life, and if that’s what you wanted, congratulations! You fucking did it, you absolute asshole.” He taps his foot on the floor impatiently, and Pete knows there’s no point in arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3

**Author's Note:**

> same time next week?


End file.
